Death Mix 2001

Have you heard this kid? Hes sick, says a Power 106 host describing the turntable prowess of Ron Keys, known to his vinyl-shredding peers as DJ Swamp. Making a beeline for the 1200s, Swamp proceeds to bastardize pops sacred cows: Nirvanas Lithium is cross-faded with Kraftwerks Trans Europe Express; Men Without Hats Safety Dance plays peekaboo with the theme song from Halloween; Butthole Surfers Pepper gets buggered with beat-box kick-drum n snare; Billy Joels drippy doo-wop Longest Time is pitch-bent into helium highs and quivering lows. Swamp calls it his death mix. After he exits the booth, the stunned host asks, Did you mess around before you came up here? Swamp pauses -- this is radio, after all -- then says, A little.

Thus far DJ Swamps career seems less like a set of long-term goals than a series of sublime flukes. A tall, gangly white kid from the Midwest, he entered the DMC deejaying competition back in 1996 on a whim and ended up winning it; he was flown last year to Glasgow to give a workshop at a DJ symposium; hes contributed to releases by Kid Rock, Morcheeba and Crystal Method. Oh yeah -- and he deejayed for Beck for five years. Its not like I auditioned or anything. [Beck] had heard me play and just called me up. So I was like, Okay. But you can only be a sideman for so long, especially with a twangy speech flow that practically leaps from your mouth. Im from Cleveland, and I went to a mostly black high school, he says, explaining the source of his nasal, faux-ebonic voice. It bugs me, though, because some people think Im trying to sound all backwater on purpose.

Armed with an unusual degree of tech savvy and the pillaging impulses of a pop-culture jackal, Swamp has moved beyond dance cultures turntable ghetto to become pure entertainer. He does this by breaking records over his knee, tossing platters behind his back and catching em on the flip side, or, just in case the audience isnt transfixed, casually setting them on fire. Though he initially turned heads as a scratcher, he also understands his crafts limitations, plainly spelled out on Ring of Fire, from the new disc Never Is Now: It takes more than your mom buying you a new pair of Technics, you geeks! When I ask which jocks influenced him, running off a short list, Swamp is miffed: A better question might be which of those guys was influenced by me. He shoots the same incredulous look to questions about his choice of beats. Im not into sampling some obvious shit, he says. Why should I pay to use someone elses stuff when I can write ones that are better?

With its textured rock guitars, slamming grooves, cheesy sci-fi samples, brag-bloated rhymes and itchy fingers, Never Is Now is a multipronged attack that Swamp hopes will scoop the rave intelligentsia, hip-hoppers, frat-rock boys and the hippies with the herb. Typical of his tweaked approach is the android gurgle of Worship the Robots, utilizing text-to-voice software instead of human lungs. It took me a year to edit that song -- I actually had to chop every line down to its syllable. The track is supplemented with a video by Steve Hanft (the DIY dude behind Becks Loser). While Hanfts wide-angle X-Games aesthetic gives the video -- depicting Star Wars storm troopers skateboarding and breakdancing -- its retro-hip sheen, its the meticulous editing job, making the actors pop & lock to the music, that has Swamps stamp all over it. Its the same sort of manic energy he imparts to a random phrase like Were in hell, aint it groovy? (My Peaceful Hell) or when he tweaks an innocent quote such as Oh, yes until it becomes an orgasmic moan (Gossip). With Swamps Farrelly brothers knack for being so moronic its genius, the oldest DJ tricks never get old.

In a dance-music world beset by egos, here-today-gone-tomorrow clubs, police harassment, nonstop travel, dangerous drugs and the constant specter of tech obsolescence, Swamp never loses his sense of humor. And if Never Is Now doesnt catapult him to fame, hes not sweating it: Ill just keep doing my thing.

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His mettle is tested a few weeks later at the Roxy, where his headlining show is a minor disaster, plagued by technical difficulties and poor organization. At one point, a drunken fan jumps up onstage, snatches the mic from the DJs hands and starts to freestyle. Instead of getting pissed off, Swamp begins to scratch rhythmically along to the alcohol-fueled word salad. Afterward, he shakes the guys hand and takes back the mic. I think Ill have to make him a regular part of my show.